


A Stranger's Care

by katiebour



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:58:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour





	A Stranger's Care

He stumbled through the ornate doors like some sort of dwarven automaton, one foot in front of the other, over and over, not stopping to see if Hawke and his companions followed.

The wind was cold in Hightown, and it cut through the covering of his coat, the quickly cooling blood on his tunic sticking to his skin.

He'd seen the change the moment the last of the Fade left Karl- emotion, feeling, desperation draining out, leaving only the serene expression of those who were already dead but simply didn't know it.

That creature would have named him and Hawke to the Templars- would have done whatever it was told to ensure Anders' death and that of the neophyte rebellion in the sewers.

Knife in hand, he'd stabbed the creature in the kidneys- it'd been years since he'd been a boy, helping his father butcher a goat, and the shock of blade in flesh, the resistance as he'd forced it in-

Desperation gave him strength, and those grey eyes had widened ever so slightly at the shock. It gave him enough time to pull the blade out and sever the windpipe, sever the artery that moved blood through those veins, to bring death to this body that he'd once admired, a death to match that of the mind that was already lost.

Karl had gurgled, sinking to the ground, blood spraying hot on Anders' face, in his eyes, his mouth, blinding him as surely as tears.

He'd wiped the blade on the sleeve of his coat, wiped the blood out of his face (he was a healer, he should have been ready for it, it wasn't as if he didn't spend his days in the clinic up to his armpits in blood and mud and shit as it was), returned the knife to its sheath, and turned to go.

Blood crept amongst the tiles of the Chantry floor- templar and mage alike, it mixed, seeping into the soles of his boots.

And then he walked out those doors, grateful for the cover of night, and walked down those steps, numb with grief.

 _stik-stik-stik-stik_ went the sound of his steps, the drying blood on his boots reminding him every second of what he'd done, and when one paver, shifted by the movement of the earth, caught his toe, he tripped, going to his hands and knees, bright flash of pain no match for the agony in his heart.

He sobbed once, then pulled it in, _pull it in pull it in_ we don't have time _run they'll be coming soon-_

Strong fingers closed around his arm and he jerked in surprise.

"Come on, then," a voice said, and he looked up to see the pirate wench that'd been with Hawke standing above him. She was as spattered in blood as he- he remembered as if in a dream, watching as Justice had thrown their power at the hated bastards, watched as one had fallen, frozen, watched as this woman had come in and with brutal efficiency driven her blades home, nearly severing the man's head where helm joined armor.

"I need a bath, and so do you," she said in a tone that brooked no argument, and pulled him to his feet.

"Bath, Corff," she'd all but snapped when they were through the door to the inn, the other denizens either pointedly ignoring them or shrinking away.

"You should see the other guy," she said cheerfully (cheerfully?!) to the crowd, and pulled him up the stairs to a back room where a tub and a cot and a fire waited, where a handful of servants were fetching kettles with steaming water back and forth.

"Corff knows I like a bath at night," she said to the room, "although he'll charge me extra for dragging the mess through his common room. Can't be helped," she sighed, and began to efficiently strip his clothing off.

First, the blood-stained jacket and leather coat, then his rough linen shirt, covered in blood. She pushed him into a chair and unlaced his boots, pulling them off, followed by socks and pants and smalls, then pulled him to his feet and got him unresisting into the filled tub.

He sat, red staining the water, and put his face in his hands.

She stripped her own clothes off quickly enough, wiped off the worst of the gore and donned a robe she kept handy, sending all the clothing and their boots with a boy who would see that they were cleaned.

He was thin, this apostate mage who glowed with unworldly power, back criss-crossed with old scars that she knew far too well. She'd seen thieves whipped in the stocks more than once, knew exactly what had left those raised white lines, and felt a surge of pity.

He wept without sound, this man, shoulders shaking, face in his hands, occasional pained breaths the only other outward sign, as if he'd spent years keeping his pain to himself, private, quiet.

She untied the thong in his hair, letting the ragged, oily strands fall around his face, and cupped water to wet it gently. Fetching the cake of soap she kept on hand, she scrubbed it into a lather, working it through hair that shone wet like the statue of Andraste in that cursed Chantry.

She hummed while she washed him, hands and soap over that scarred back, over strong shoulders and arms, over wiry, spare strength, the spicy scent of the soap hiding the coppery stench of blood.

She pulled his hands away from his face, ran wet hands over his face as he closed his eyes and submitted, golden lashes and brows holding droplets of water that shone in candlelight.

Next came those careworn, callused hands, and she stood up and came back with a small wooden stick, end thinned and blunted, and used it to clean under his fingernails, following it up with a second sudsing of the soap over those fingers, a scrubbing that made him wince as she washed Hightown grit out of scraped palms where he'd fallen.

She coaxed him to stand and washed the rest of him without comment, without wandering hands or jokes- he'd done a warrior's deed this night, and earned a warrior's care.

Rinsing off the last of the soap, she pulled him out of the tub and bundled him into a blanket, sitting him in front of the fire while she had a quick wash, then called the serving boys to take the tub away.

Pulling out a beautifully carved ivory comb, she stood behind him, gently combing out knots.

"You have beautiful hair," she said, golden-red strands drying, and he looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes.

"Karl thought so too," he said, voice choked, and she put her arms around him when the tears came again.


End file.
